


Precious, Weary Moments

by fourletterepithet



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied Crush, cullen overthinks things a lot, flustered Cullen, poor poor cullen, uncomfortable dancing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-06-23 04:43:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15598533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourletterepithet/pseuds/fourletterepithet
Summary: Cullen had noticed her quiet determination long ago, but the crucible of her clan’s death seems to have begun the process of forging her anew. He hears her talk unflinchingly about her loss with other Dalish. He watches her (surreptitiously, he hopes) trot around the fortress with her shoulders back and chin held high.He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t concerned that she was pushing herself, but with a sudden burst of clarity, he realizes that that’s what she’s been doing all along.





	1. Chapter 1

The flicker of the candlelight makes it hard to pick out, but Cullen swears he catches Inquisitor Lavellan’s lip wobble after Josephine delivers the news.

He must have been right, since Josephine reaches out to touch the Inquisitor's arm, and she offers the ambassador a faint smile, little more than a slight tug at the corners of her mouth. Her smile falters after a moment, and she hangs her head, drawing in a breath that rattles with grief. His heart breaks a little for her.

Leliana shakes her head as Josephine's hand drops. "Perhaps we should reconvene at a later date."

The Inquisitor's head jerks up. "No," she says with force, then shrinks back a little on herself. "Ah... no. That won't be necessary." She swipes at her mutinous eyes, frowns, and stares at the map.

"If you're certain," says Leliana warily, looking pained.

The Inquisitor reaches out to lift and place a marker on the map near the Emprise du Lion, brow knit. The four begin to plan their next move.

By the time the Inquisitor exits the war room, the stars have begun wheeling through the night sky. The three advisors stay behind for a time, arranging provisions for the Inquisitor's next excursion, but the conversation is stilted, and they avoid the topic of the Inquisitor’s dead clan altogether.

——

Skyhold bustles with activity on the slowest of days, but the Inquisition has received word that several soldiers have gone missing in the Fallow Mire. The Inquisitor changed tack, diverting her attention from the Emprise du Lion, and has spent the last few days preparing for an extended foray to find them. Between the apothecary, the quartermaster, and horsemaster Dennet barking orders at the stable hands and setting the runners to fetch this and that, the fortress has been buzzing like a wasp's nest.

One day, the Inquisitor walks into the war room, gaze distant and unfocused. She stands frozen before the door for a few moments after it swings shut — then a mewl of anguish escapes her and her hands fly to her face. Josie’s noteboard clatters to the ground, and in the next instant, both she and Leliana have swept the elf into a tangle of arms and comforting words. Cullen joins in, too shocked to be self-conscious.

The Inquisitor makes little strangled noises and tries to stop, tries to tell _them_ to please stop so _she_ can stop crying, but they’re having none of it. “You are allowed to feel,” says Leliana, and the shock of those words coming from that particular person is what seems to allow the Inquisitor to let her sense of propriety go. She sobs like a child, face buried in her hands and forehead pressed to the spymaster’s shoulder, and it feels like he’s being pulled apart.

No work gets done that day, but once the Inquisitor is sent to her quarters (followed closely behind by servants bearing a tub of hot water and a bag of bath salts laced with fragrant herbs), the trio of advisors agree that they had accomplished something important anyway.

Afterwards, the servants whisper about Vivienne importing a strange contraption from Val Royeaux that the Inquisitor slips her arms into. It makes her stand like a courtier. They whisper about the Inquisitor being made to walk back and forth on the balcony with a book on her head. How she teaches her how to control her voice. How to lift her chin and straighten her back, and how it begins transforming the woman into someone who can act like nothing in the world is wrong, even when the world itself crumbles to ash around her.

The servants whisper about how the Inquisitor sits in Solas’ rotunda, letting him guide her through meditation after meditation until they begin to build a method that works for her. His patience is thin, at first, until one morning she’s seated herself on the floor by his desk before he wakes up, legs crossed and eyes screwed stubbornly shut. “Even I can’t meditate when the smell of fresh paint so permeates the room,” he says, dry as sand, and the corner of her mouth turns up.

“Seeing, seeking, surrounding, searching, and secretly wishing for answers she cannot give,” says Cole, startling Cullen the one evening he takes his supper in the tavern instead of his office. “She can’t let them down. She can’t let herself down. She walks, but learns how to walk again. She thinks, but learns how to think again, for all of their sakes.”

Cullen had noticed her quiet determination long ago, but the crucible of her clan’s death seems to have begun the process of forging her anew. He hears her talk unflinchingly about her loss with other Dalish. He watches her (surreptitiously, he hopes) trot around the fortress with her shoulders back and chin held high.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t concerned that she was pushing herself, but with a sudden burst of clarity, he realizes that that’s what she’s been doing all along.

——

He finds her in the garden.

She has her back to him. He pauses at the door, hesitating, uncertain if he should stay.

Then he squints into the dark. The torches cast thin light over the spot where the Inquisitor kneels, but he can make out a bucket, a pile of dirt, a trowel, and a small parcel, carefully opened and set aside, propped up against the stonework. She's gardening. Gardening?

Curiosity piqued, Cullen settles his hand on the pommel of his sword and steps off the flagstone path onto the grass, clearing his throat. The Inquisitor jumps, turning, but relaxes when she sees him. Sitting up straighter, she greets Cullen with a wan smile and a quiet "Commander," and he stifles the urge to swallow. Her scarred cheek bears a smear of dirt, and while there are no fresh tear tracks, her eyes are puffy and red. A sapling, no larger than a foot in height, sits opposite her, a trail of dirt leading from its root ball to the opened parcel.

He rubs the back of his neck and flushes. "I, ah, I'm sorry -- I didn't mean to -- intrude," he finishes, awkward. He pauses, then lolls his head backwards and grimaces at himself in exasperation. "Let me start again. I apologize, Inquisitor; after... well. I saw you while I was making the rounds, and I was worried about you." His eyes widen, and he blurts out (perhaps a little too quickly), “As were all of us.”

Her smile softens again. For a moment, her chin wrinkles and it seems as though she might lose her gravity, but she regains her equilibrium with little more than a sniffle, smoothing her expression out. She breaks her gaze away and directs it at the ground -- at her hands (still balled into fists), covered in dirt (even though she has tools to dig with), at the (clean) tools — anything, it seems, to avoid making eye contact. "Thank you, Commander. I appreciate the concern. I am... not fine. Not yet," she says slowly, "but I will be. It wasn't anyone's fault... and there's nothing I can do about it now."

Cullen's armor clanks as he shifts his weight, shaking his head and frowning. "You are giving yourself space to grieve, I hope."

“Would that the world pause long enough for me to weep,” she murmurs, voice low and bitter.

“Inquisitor.”

She looks up at him as he closes the gap between them in measured strides, and she watches as he kneels on the grass beside her. For a moment, under her scrutiny, he loses his nerve. The words turn over and over in his head, and he frowns in thought. Finally, one hand lifts from of the pommel of his sword to touch fingertips to her shoulder, almost of its own volition. “Should you need such, you know you can rely on me — on all of us — to take over at least some of your duties for a time.”

Her breath leaves in a slow, ragged sigh as she slouches a little. “Thank you… but the missing soldiers — I’d like to search for them personally.”

“You’d like to see to a lot of things that you don’t necessarily have to,” he observes dryly.

Her lips quirk up and she casts him a half-hearted glare. He smiles at the insincerity of it. “You’d do the same, you hypocrite,” she says, amused.

“Quite.” He tries not to think about how easily she slips into teasing him. He fails. “Now, if you don't mind the turnabout--"

Her eyebrows rise in puzzlement.

"You ask a _lot_ of questions,” he says with a chuckle.

Sheepishly, she ducks her head and opens one hand in a placating gesture. “Do go on.”

"May I ask why you're gardening at two in the morning?"

The smile falters and fades. She's silent for long enough that he begins to fret that he's offended her. "I hope I don't make you feel too bad," she says at length, and Cullen's eyebrows immediately wrench into a worried vee, "but ... planting a tree to mark a grave is customary. For my people." She takes the sapling in her slim fingers and presses it into a hole Cullen hadn't noticed before. "Though I haven’t made a staff to bury with it, and I can't make it out to Wycome for some time to -- to collect the --" her voice catches, and she musses with the soil for a moment in strained silence. "I thought performing a small ritual might grant some peace."

His next inhalation is sharp, as though hit, and he rocks back a little. "Maker's Breath. Forgive my ignorance.”

She shakes her head, though she turns to look at Cullen as the buckles of his armor rattle and creak with his movement. “There’s no need to apologize, Commander.” Swiping at her nose, she makes a disgusted noise and gazes at the sapling again, mouth pressing into a thin line. “Tonight is a bad night for me. Thank you for checking in.”

Taking the dismissal for what it is, he inclines his head in acknowledgment and departs.

He lays awake for hours, cursing himself for assuming anything about her funerary customs — for assuming she was just gardening, of _course_ she wasn’t _just gardening_ — and the nightmarish woman that haunts him nightly develops delicate, pointed ears.

——

The Inquisitor does not spend a moment diverging from her usual routine; she simply adds a daily stop to the garden.

One afternoon, Cullen takes his leave from training the troops and returns to his office. He's surprised to see the Inquisitor already there. He's even more surprised to see the inexpertly whittled, diminutive oak staff he had been working on in his spare time being turned over in her hands, her lips parted in -- dismay? Astonishment? Cold horror knots in his stomach. He had forgotten to put it away.

When he makes a choked noise, she starts and turns towards him, eyes wide as she holds the little rod aloft. "Cullen?”

"It's -- Maker, Velthei — Inquisitor! I hope I —” He's red. Red as a beet, skin burning from tips of his ears down past the collar of his breastplate, and he curses his inability to remain collected in front of her. “That is, I did a little reading on Dalish funerals -- I know it's small, but it was meant to go with the sapling you planted and I'm sorry, I-I --"

Velthei interrupts his stream of apologetic babble by flinging her arms around his neck and burying her face in his mantle. He has the grace not to flap his arms, at least, but the awkward pat on the back he gives her is probably going to give him shameful waking nightmares for months. He casts a frantic glance in the direction of the still-open door, and he's glad Varric isn't there to witness this.

After a few long (short, pounding) heartbeats, Cullen finally brings one hand to rest between her shoulder blades with the same care he'd take in handling a bird. He realizes he's going to remember how she smells for a long time — leather from her new jacket, the herbal soap she makes herself when she has the time to — and he resists the urge to drop his nose into her hair.

The sun slanting through the door shifts as they stay frozen in place for some time, both people trying to control their breathing for different reasons. Finally, the Inquisitor dashes the tears from her eyes, sniffles, and says her thanks in a thick voice, parting from the embrace. Her hands trail down the ruff of fur around his shoulders before she lets them drop to her sides.

Cullen, fighting off the goofy smile that threatens to smear itself across his face, gives Velthei’s shoulder the gentlest of squeezes before his hand returns to the back of his neck. She looks up at the movement, then rolls her eyes with a fond shake of her head.

"I'm not much of an artist," he says, voice soft, then he frowns a little. "... actually, I'm terrible at anything involving the arts,” — she laughs at this — “but I was confident that whittling a staff didn't involve a lot of artistic ability."

"Cullen, I -- you don't need to worry. _Thank_ you, again," she replies, then turns her gaze to the staff she holds in her hand. "Is it finished?"

He grimaces. "I should hope not. At the very least, it requires sanding and a good polish. I-- I thought it didn't deserve anything less."

She places it back on the desk and gives her eyes another scrub. "I look forward to seeing it, then," she says, then levels a smile at him that has more lightness in it than he's seen on her face in days. “And please, start calling me Velthei.”

Cullen inclines his head, a faint smile tugging at the scar on his lip. "Inquisitor."

——

The miniature staff, polished and oiled, gets lowered into the ground beside the sapling that evening. Cullen was a little embarrassed when Velthei asked if she could invite Josephine, Leliana and Cassandra to the honorary funeral, but in the end, he’s glad she did. Varric, Iron Bull, and Dorian, ever the gossips, “accidentally” found their way to the gardens, Varric bearing a platter of pastries filched from the kitchen. The group of them make it a point to tease a laugh out of the Inquisitor, and though Cullen keeps out of it for the most part, he finds himself chuckling along more than once.

When Velthei pats the final fistful of dirt onto the grave and rises to her feet, Cullen, smiling softly, bows a little at the waist, tapping his fist over his heart in salute. The rest of the assembled group follow suit, and Velthei vents a watery laugh before burying her face in her hands again and thanking them all through her fingers. He’s seen her cry three times over the last week, but this didn’t make his heart hurt.

One by one, the companions filter out of the green. Some embrace her and murmur things into her ear that make her erupt in braying laughter before they depart (Dorian). Some don’t bother murmuring at all and laugh uproariously at themselves (Iron Bull). Some issue awkward nods before issuing awkward stares and even more awkward pats on her back (Cassandra).

Some laugh as they accuse her of using feminine tears to manipulate the audience into giving her more than her fair share of pastries (Varric, as he hands her a small cupcake piped with buttercream flowers). Some he hadn’t even realized had arrived to begin with (Cole)… and the last two exchange knowing glances and arched eyebrows as they exit the gardens (Josephine and Leliana). Those two, he glares after.

Once Velthei and Cullen are left alone, they turn to each other and exchange smiles, though his hand immediately goes to the back of his neck. “Are you going to be all right, Velthei?” asks Cullen, taking charge before she can fluster him.

Velthei bobs her head, smiling. “I will be, yes. I … Doubtless I’ll have my moments, but tonight felt as though something had been set right,” she says, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder, and he finds himself agreeing. “Thank you, Cullen. For everything.”

When she leaves on her hart with her war party in tow the next morning, he stands on the battlements, staring into the distance long after losing sight of them.


	2. With Friends Like These

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen snorts. “I’ll suggest to my older sister that she follow in your footsteps.”
> 
> Velthei raises an eyebrow at him. “And she would react by …?”
> 
> “Coming after me with a broom, most likely.”

_Commander Cullen,_

_I hope this letter finds you and our former hostages well._

_Our return will be further delayed. We prioritized finding our men first, but now we must backtrack and solve the riddle of the four beacons we’ve stumbled across._

_Demons have been bound to the two we’ve investigated thus far, and there appear to be ciphered runes that only Dorian and I can see etched upon the stone towers. They become exposed under the light of Veilfire, and the runes are warded._

_The matter of the paranoid apostate mage lurking about in the area has yet to be fully investigated, as well. Based on his or her half-encoded journal, the bound demons, and ciphered runes, there is a strong probability that they are all connected. We gave wide berth to the remaining beacons for those reasons._

_The Inquisition’s official stance on the mage is that he or she is perhaps somewhat unhinged._

_Cassandra disapproves of my informal tone. Now she’s protesting that that “is not what she said.” Dorian is not being helpful with his suggestions. He says I should “spice things up a little.” Peppercorns. Stop reading my letter aloud to the rest of the camp, **Varric.**_

_The banter has been especially… prolific of late. I think they’ve been trying to cheer me up._

_As always, I will update you and the others as the situation progresses._

_\- Velthei_

—

_Inquisitor Velthei,_

_Our men arrived at Skyhold safely and in good shape. Well done._

He taps the quill on the parchment, pursing his lips. _Your candor and caution are appreciated. I have received word that Adan has stabilized his first potential cure for the disease plaguing our forces stationed nearby. He will be filling the requisition and sending it to the primary forward camp in the Mire for testing as soon as he’s finished mass production._

_The Veil is particularly thin in that region. Please take care around the demons; they may not be bound by any particular will, and may not behave predictably. If you can find one of those Veil-repairing devices Solas has mentioned and activate it, so much the better._

_I cannot say I would not be attempting to do the same were I there, although I confess the combination of Varric, Cassandra, and Dorian likely generates far more comedy than I could ever manage alone._ “Unless you like pratfalls and a lot of stammering,” he mutters aloud.

_As it is, I’m uncertain I can find a person alive willing to chaperone the Herald of Andraste and her inner circle, so, on behalf of the Inquisition, tell them all to behave themselves, for heaven’s sake._

_It is good to hear from you._

_\- Cullen_

—

_Commander Cullen,_

_Good news — Adan’s cure appears to be working with minimal side effects._

_I did not heed your advice at all. We could find no further clues by the Avvar base camp, so we backtracked and secured the remaining beacons._

_Deciphering the runes on the remaining two and adding them to what we had produced a recipe for a rather horrifying poison. I am uncertain that this is what the mage had intended to create._

_Nevertheless, this is the result of whatever deals she had made with the demons she found. I wish I had brought Solas along. We did in fact find another Veil-strengthening artifact and activated it._

_We also found the mage who wrote the journal in the same area. Her name is Widris. Was. She attacked us before we caught sight of her; she had been waiting in ambush. Minor injuries were sustained. Enclosed is a more thorough report of the incident, along with my conclusions._

_I will be arriving at Skyhold within the week._

_\- Velthei_

_P.S._

_On the contrary, Commander, I find you quite funny._

—

He’s been awake for hours with a headache. A few books of cipher decoding theory lay piled on his desk (one open in his lap) when he hears the horns announcing the Inquisitor’s return. One trails off in a series of sad, staccato bleats, and Cullen rolls his eyes, placing the ribbon on the page before heaving himself out of his seat.

The hooves of the party’s mounts thunder over the cobbles, striking sparks as Cullen trots down the stairs leading to the landing. Cassandra spots him first, offering a salute as she dismounts from her horse. The great chestnut gelding stamps its foot and snorts, not in the least winded. “What on earth was _that_ all about?” she says as he walks up to the group, nodding towards the trumpeters with a frown.

Cullen sighs. “He’s been nursing a cold for a week. He insisted he would be fine for it, and the director allowed it.”

“Let us pray he doesn’t develop pneumonia,” she mutters, shouldering one of the packs attached to the horse’s saddle herself.

“I think he already _has,_ ” says Velthei with a loud yawn, covering her mouth. “Creators, that was a long ride.” Undoing the rope lashing her to her saddle, she slides off and lands on the ground as her hart grunts at her. She murmurs something in Elven and slips it something from an inside pocket, scratching under its chin with her other hand before planting a kiss on its nose.

Cullen turns away from her to see Dorian staring at him with a wicked grin. He mouths the word “Jealous?”, waggling his eyebrows. Cullen stiffens, indignant, before the mage walks away with a casual wave, still grinning. “I’ll catch up with you after I’ve had my beauty rest, Inquisitor,” he calls.

“I,” declares Velthei as she hands the reins to the stable hand collecting the party’s beasts, “am going to go to my quarters and get a few hours of proper sleep. Are you here to scold me, Commander?”

He snorts, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Perhaps I was merely waiting to point out to you in person that you seldom heed my advice.”

“You should be used to it by now,” she retorts. Then, with a wave, she makes for the main hall.

“I still don’t understand why you don’t use the bed. It’s a _bed,_ ” Varric calls after her, laughing. “The most luxurious furs in the world can’t compare to that great oaken monstrosity you have in your amphitheater of a bedroom. It doesn’t make sense.”

Velthei just waves again before elbowing the door open and disappearing within. Varric shakes his head, then claps Cullen on the shoulder, startling him into looking down at the dwarf. “She’s doing better, but you should probably talk to her anyway. Just to make sure.” He winks before ambling off.

—

He does send for her later in the week, but it’s not about what Varric thinks. His vision is swimming when he informs her, and he has to stay out of the sunlight blaring into his office. Her question is drenched in horror and concern, and she moves to touch him, but he holds a hand up to ward her off, scowling with self-loathing. She already knows about his conversation with Cassandra. Her face falls and she bends to start gathering the shattered lyrium kit lying in splinters behind her.

She finds him on the battlements later, on the southern side of the fortress.

The conversation… does not finish the way he had expected it to. He sits slouched at his desk hours later, hands steepled in front of him, neither sure of why or what on earth he did to deserve Velthei’s understanding and support.

—

One evening, when Cullen’s hands don’t tremble, when the candles don’t split three ways if he looks at them too long, and when he isn’t pouring sweat despite the chill that hangs in the air, he catches Velthei in the garden again. She kneels on the ground, head bowed, back turned to him, humming something under her breath.

His lips curve up into a soft smile, and he clears his throat, stepping off the flagstone path. She doesn’t startle this time; she turns at the waist, brightening when she sees him, then gestures for him to join her.

And he does, kneeling in the little mound of grass before the sapling and lowering his head. He hears her leathers creak as she turns away from him, and she takes up her humming again. Somehow, he knows it’s a Dalish funeral dirge, and rather than indulge in the impulse to hum a harmony line, he lets her share the moment with him.

They walk out together later in companionable silence.

—

“Don’t get smug,” says Dorian, lifting his palms in a warding gesture as he makes to leave. “There will be no living with you.”

Cullen can’t see whatever Dorian does that causes Velthei to roll her eyes and bat his shoulder as he ambles away, but when she meets his gaze, he holds his hands up, echoing Dorian. “I don’t want to know,” he says, and Velthei laughs. “I should return to my duties as well… unless you would care for a game?”

Velthei’s eyebrows rise. “Prepare the board, Commander.”

“As a child, I would play this with my sister,” says Cullen with a fond grin, resetting the playing pieces as Velthei settles down in the seat across from him. “She would get this stuck-up grin whenever she won, which was all the time. My brother and I practiced together for weeks! The look on her face the day I finally won…” He leans back, the grin fading a little, and he finds himself staring at the board with his brow wrinkled, sinking into memories of his family. “Between serving the Templars and the Inquisition, I haven’t seen them in years. I wonder if she… still plays.”

“You have siblings?”

Cullen’s eyes flick up to meet hers, and he gestures at the board when she doesn’t start. “Two sisters, and a brother.”

Velthei tilts her head at him, moving a pawn forward. “Where are they now?”

His brow wrinkles a little as he tries to search her face. “Inqu — Velthei, are you — Should I not be talking about —”

“Ah.” She leans back a little, a sad smile lifting her lips. “So that’s why you started looking so guilty. I’m fine.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I apologize. I wasn’t sure if… I had started talking without thinking, and I wasn’t sure if I should...”

Velthei’s eyes fall to the chess board as Cullen trails off, and she sits, quiet, for a few moments, a faint line appearing between her brows. He tilts his head in query, and, catching the movement, she looks back up to him with a shake of her head. “Cullen, you seem happier when you talk about them. I like it. Please continue.”

“I — oh. Oh. I, uh,” he stammers, frozen, and swallows hard. “All right. They moved to South Reach after the Blight. I do not write to them as often as I should… Ah, it’s my turn.”

She looks at him for a moment longer, her eyes unreadable, then takes his cue, shrugging, and rubs her hands together conspiratorially. “Prepare to relive your childhood defeats; this game is mine.”

Cullen’s eyes crinkle as he chuckles, some of the tension leaving his shoulders, and he moves his piece forward. “You’ve been spending too much time with Dorian, I think.”

“There is no such thing,” she retorts. “My ability to be sarcastic has improved tenfold since meeting him.”

“I — think it wisest if I offer no comment.”

She grins, rubbing her chin and looking intently at the board. “I have — had — a younger sister,” she says quietly, moving her piece, and Cullen looks up in surprise. She blinks a few times, then swipes a hand at her eyes, and recovers. “We butted heads a lot, especially when I was a cranky adolescent.”

“I can hardly imagine you as anyone other than who you are now.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He chuckles. “You should.”

“I — thank you,” she says, sheepish, “but no, I was very… different. Stubborn, and more than a little arrogant about my magical talent. She was training to be a Hunter and was quite proficient with her little starter bow. I think I was insecure about it, so I would try to one-up her. She was just a little kid! I found that when I relaxed — and grew up — we got along much better.”

Cullen snorts. “I’ll suggest to my older sister that she follow in your footsteps.”

Velthei raises an eyebrow at him. “And she would react by …?”

“Coming after me with a broom, most likely.” He leans back, looking out over the gardens as a ray of sunlight parts the cloud cover. He gives a little stretch before turning back to Velthei with a smile. “I think turning the northern courtyard into a garden was the right decision. It seems as though everyone walks through here, regardless of station,” he says, sweeping his hand at the beds of flowers and herbs. “People leave it happier. Or so _I_ think, anyway.”

Velthei inhales, beaming at him, and her hands twist in her lap. The light sets her dun hair in a halo of fire, the sun lighting her face in such a way that he sees the faint furrowing of crow’s feet starting at the corners of her eyes. He has to remember to breathe. “That’s — Cullen, that’s the most touching thing anyone has said to me since this all started,” she says, voice thick. “I wanted Skyhold to make everyone feel welcome.”

“I would say you’ve accomplished that much,” Cullen murmurs, feeling his cheeks warm under Velthei’s affectionate scrutiny. He looks away, towards the sapling she’d planted some weeks ago. She moves a rook diagonally two spaces while she thinks he isn’t paying attention. He waits politely before looking at her again. “You know, I think this may be the longest we’ve gone without discussing the Inquisition — or related matters. To be honest, I appreciate the distraction.”

“We should spend more time together.”

His eyebrows attempt to nest in his hairline. “I would — like that.”

“Me too.”

Cullen hesitates, uncertain if he had heard her right. When her hesitant gaze flicks up to meet his, flushed to the tips of her pointed ears, he knows he had, and his face begins to hurt from smiling. “You — said that. We should — finish our game, right? My turn?”

—

“Well,” says Cullen, an anticipatory grin spreading across his face. “I believe the game is mine!”

Velthei gawks at him. “Wait. _What?_ ” she says, tearing her gaze to the board as though it could answer her.

“Dorian cheats at this as well,” he says, laughing, the chair creaking as he leans back in it. “ _And_ Leliana.”

She huffs. “In my defense, I have played chess fewer times than I have fingers, Commander.”

“And that is reason enough to cheat?” he says, all injured innocence. Velthei forks her fingers through her hair, laughing now, and Cullen spreads his hands with a shake of his head. “Inquisitor Lavellan, I am _disappointed._ ”

“How will I ever regain your trust?” she asks theatrically, leaning her elbow on the arm of the chair and plopping her chin into her hand with a grin.

“Perhaps we shall try again sometime. With a chaperone.”

“Do I get to pick?”

He snorts a laugh, collecting the playing pieces. “No.”

—

Later that afternoon, she asks him if he had left anyone special behind. He’s surprised into honesty, and spends the next hour or two staring stunned at the paperwork that suddenly can’t hold his attention anymore.

Later that evening, just before sunset, she bursts into his office, and asks if they can speak. Alone.

As they walk, she asks, halting and more hesitant than he’d ever seen her, if he could care for a mage. His heart is pounding. He already does, but he can’t seem to spit the words out. He gibbers, then sighs, eyes sliding shut in exasperation and pain.

He explains it to her softly, how his fear and hesitation has nothing to do with her being a mage but everything to do with her being _The Inquisitor_ and how would they find the time but he wants to, oh, he wants to. When she bites her lower lip, her eyes searching his face for answers to a question he senses that she’s too afraid to ask, his hands fly to cup her jaw, and he kisses her full on the mouth, pouring into it the months of wondering and longing and restless nights hoping she’ll return in one piece.

He murmurs an apology to her as they part, but she scowls in withering exasperation and interrupts his sudden crack of laughter by pressing her lips to his again. He feels her lips part as she curls her fingers through his hair. She tastes of mint and — and he dizzily decides that he likes this too much to think about it.

Heart pounding and so, so light, he leans her against the crenellations, caressing her scarred cheek with an uncertain hand while his other finds its way around the small of her back, kissing her until they’re both breathless and beaming and more than a little flushed.

They talk after, hands clasped and standing scandalously close, but at that moment, he could be carried off by an ocean wave and be hard pressed to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DID THE THING.
> 
> EDIT: Fixed a few editorial things that were bothering me, and added one tiny scene.
> 
> Special thanks to @kvpowers on tumblr for the beta-ing!


	3. Cassandra Slightly Approves (Chapter 3: Now Less Annoying to the Author)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We follow our intrepid Commander and Inquisitor as they open up. Boy, I'm awful at writing summaries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so, after re-assessing the previous iteration of Chapter 3 over and over again ... I ended up hating it. So I rewrote it! This is still going to be a relatively short story, but some of the better parts are going to be chopped up and tossed back into the word salad that is my fanfiction later on down the line. 
> 
> Stay tuned.

  
_Cullen,_

_Within minutes of arriving at our forward camp, we encountered a group of individuals calling themselves the Freemen of the Dales harassing one of our scouting teams. Scout Harding filled us in after we cleaned up; disillusioned soldiers from the Orlesian Imperial Army, tired of the fighting between Gaspard and Celene, have decided to claim the Dales as an independent state and are attempting to enforce said claim with violence. Enclosed is a more thorough report from Harding on the matter. Leliana and Josephine have also been copied on it._

_Harding has directed me to a man who claimed to be willing to disclose valuable information to me, and me alone. Shockingly, he didn’t try to kill me. It was a refreshing change of pace. My bar is so low at this point, I think that means we’re the best of friends. He calls himself Fairbanks._

_According to him, the Freemen are colluding with the Red Templars. While we are searching for information on the routes Samson’s smuggling caravans are taking, we’ll look into Fairbanks’ claims._

_On a personal note, the Emerald Graves is breathtaking. I will describe it in detail when I have the time._

_One more thing: I have no idea what the bears here eat, but they’re the size of an aravel cargo wagon. I am not happy._

_— Velthei_

_—_

_Velthei,_

_Report received. I look forward to seeing your conclusions on the matter._

_Please be careful._

_— Cullen_

_—_

_Cullen,_

_We found letters from the smugglers describing their routes; they are attached._

_The Freemen of the Dales are were indeed colluding with the Red Templars. I am having copies made of one of the leaders’ journals; they will be shipped to Skyhold as soon as the scribes are finished. His name was Maliphant. It does not seem as though he knew he was being manipulated. Reading his journals was unpleasant. He was a hair’s breadth from stringing it all together before we’d happened upon him …_

_In potentially more optimistic news, we stumbled across a tomb in the northeastern quarter of the Graves that a group of Dalish elves from a clan residing in the Exalted Plains has just begun to investigate. The group’s leader, Taven, says there might be something of historical significance to the Dalish. I will be keeping in touch with him._

_I dislike bears._

_— Velthei_

_—_

_Velthei,_

_I’m certain the feeling is mutual._

_Excellent work. Inquisition agents have traced the source of Samson’s red lyrium to a mine in the Emprise du Lion. We will discuss further when you return to Skyhold. Soon, I hope?_

_I would also like to warn you in advance: A grand ball will be held at the Winter Palace to facilitate peace talks between Empress Celene and Gaspard. A set of letters from Josephine should be reaching you before you return. If you could discourage them from including me in this mess, that would be appreciated._

_\- Cullen_

A very tiny scroll is laying next to Cullen’s bed when he retires the following night.

_Cullen,_

_Well, shit._

_\- Velthei_

And, scribbled hastily at the bottom, _Expect us within the week._

He starts laughing.

He’s meeting in his office with Leliana and Josephine about Sahrnia Quarry around lunchtime when the horns sound. The trio adjourn to watch the Inquisitor’s approach, chatting amiably as they trot down the stairs. There is far more ceremony now in the Inquisitor’s return than in the early days of the Inquisition, and Cullen can’t tell if the Inquisitor’s inner circle is getting more or less comfortable with it. Some of them are harder to read than the others, anyway.

Dorian — Velthei’s constant accomplice — gets more cheers than jeers these days, so the preening he’s previously kept isolated to moments with the people he’s close to has begun to show more. Chin held high, he flashes his teeth in a brilliant smile to the assembled crowd as he rides through the gates. Blackwall waves, though he has a tendency to hunch under the scrutiny, and Solas offers little more than polite nods and smiles.

Velthei herself doesn’t look like she knows how to handle it, always waving back with an embarrassed air and a forced smile. She twists around in her saddle, searching for something — then when her eyes meet Cullen’s, her smile warms, and Cullen thinks it’s almost as good as a kiss as she drops from her saddle in a practiced movement. He finds himself smiling in kind — at least until Velthei’s gaze snaps to something past his shoulder, and he follows it to catch his fellow advisors beaming at him.

He clears his throat. “Don’t you two have somewhere to be?”

“ **Oh** no,” says Leliana, folding her hands behind her back and rolling onto her toes, and Cullen immediately regrets the mistake he’s just made, “we wouldn’t want to miss this.”

“Not for anything in the world,” says Josephine, linking her arm in Leliana’s and smiling at him in pure delight.

Ears reddening, Cullen’s lips press flat, and he turns towards Velthei with a ragged sigh of immense loss for his poor, tattered dignity. Velthei wears an infuriating grin as her left eye closes in a slow wink, and he claps one hand over his eyes and groans. Peals of laughter from Josephine and Leliana sound behind him, followed by nervous giggles rippling through the assembled crowd.

The secret — such as it was — has been out for some time, but Velthei seems content to continue the charade as she makes for the great hall. He hasn’t told her anything to the contrary, but the wrench of disappointment in his stomach after she doesn’t hug or kiss or _do something to him_ in full view of everyone hints that perhaps he might not desire secrecy after all.

With a frown — and no small effort — he tamps the thought down like the ashes of a campfire, turning to issue orders to the soldiers that have strayed from the barracks to watch the Inquisitor’s latest triumphant return. He does not miss the grins on Josie and Leliana’s faces as they make their way to the great hall, in more ways than one.

—

The wind’s bitter howl rolls over the battlements as Cullen walks them, bringing long-dead leaves with it, and it’s times like these that give him pause in wondering why other religions attribute natural phenomena to their so-called gods. He draws his coat around him a little tighter as he makes his way across the stone walkway.

Velthei’s leaning on her folded arms against one of the crenellations, dressed in the simple scarf and hunting leathers she wears around Skyhold; he feels his hand lifting almost against his wits to settle on the curve of her hip, dangerously low, but she doesn’t seem to mind as she turns to him with a gleam in her eye and a smile full of promise.

Cullen pulls Velthei flush with his body before capturing her mouth in a kiss, his other hand palming where her jaw meets the curve of her ear as he is wont to do, and he imagines electricity sparkling along his arm as her hand curls around his bicep, almost hesitant in how she touches him.

Heat pools below his waist far too quickly, and he pulls away to forestall it, Velthei leaning forward to steal the last moments of their kiss with palpable disappointment. Cullen can’t help the half-smile that curls the scarred side of his mouth as he turns towards his office. He hears her huff behind him, and the wind seems to carry her frustration to his ear as the door clicks shut behind his back. The guards pretend not to notice, and he’s grateful for their discretion.

When they meet later on to discuss Samson, it’s all business on both sides.

Well, mostly. Cullen has marked Sahrnia Quarry and the potential routes to infiltrate it on his copy of the map, and he notes that Velthei doesn’t seem to notice, or, more likely, _care_ , that he doesn’t move out of the way when she maneuvers around the desk to better orient herself.

She wedges herself between him and the desk, the back of her legs pressing into the upper half of one of his thighs. He hesitates for a moment before his resolve shatters and he burrows his nose into the crown of Velthei’s hair, inhaling her scent freely now, soap and sage and something distinctly her.

He thinks he can hear the smile in her breath, and he reaches to where she’s pointing on the map to wrap his hand under her forearm, gloved thumb pushing the sleeve of her shirt back so he can trace the vein that tracks the underside of her wrist, touch feather-light. He feels her muscles bunch before she releases the tension with a shiver, and whatever she had been saying to him trails off into expectant silence as she turns to lift her parted lips to his.

The latch of the northeastern door to his office, always unlocked, pops open, and as the door’s hinges groan, they leap apart as if whipped.

“Commander, I wanted to discuss our next —” Cassandra stops short, gaze swapping between the two of them and back again, and the line between her brows deepens almost imperceptibly. “Am I… interrupting something?”

“Yes,” says Velthei as Cullen says “No,” and they both exchange stunned glances before Velthei’s helpless grin spreads across her reddened face. “ _Technically_ , yes,” she says, not taking her eyes off of Cullen at first, horribly amused, “but you interrupted nothing we should have been doing in the midst of a serious conversation to begin with.”

Cullen stays silent, jerking his gaze to some point above and to the left of the doorjamb above Cassandra’s head, feeling the heat crawl to the tips of his ears for the second time that day. A faint smile plays at the corners of Cassandra’s mouth before she inclines her head and reaches for the door handle. “Perhaps another time, then.”

The door closes behind her with a click. Cullen’s slack-jawed stare meets Velthei’s wild-eyed delight, and she grabs him by the arms and shakes him. “ _Cullen, she approves!_ ”

—

They sit at the chess table in the gardens later that week, halfway through another match. Cullen had made his move a few minutes ago, and Velthei sits with her chin in one hand, staring at the board with a frown. “This was easier when I was cheating,” she complains.

Cullen grins affectionately. “And yet, you still lost.”

“Probably because I had no idea what I was doing,” says Velthei, rueful quirk of her brows and all. “I still don’t.”

“I _did_ offer to tutor you.”

She moves a bishop listlessly into position with one finger, then slowly lifts her gaze to meet his, gray-blue eyes glinting in the sun as her lips purse in mock thought. “We can hardly discuss Inquisition matters alone anymore without getting frisky, and you expect any kind of tutoring to get done?”

“As I recall, that was your doing.”

“Commander,” says Velthei, scandalized, “are you using the ‘she started it!’ defense?”

“I —” he splutters, casting about the gardens. “Well, you _did!_ ”

She starts laughing, and he covers his face with his hands. “You’re right. I did,” she says, then her voice drops to a low purr, “and I in no way regret it.”

He groans in response, not lowering his hands. “Can we just play chess? Please?” he pleads, voice muffled.

She throws her head back and cackles. After a few moments of this, the laughter drains to a chuckle, and she heaves forward in her chair and swipes a tear from her eye, unable to shed her grin. “I’m sorry, Cullen.”

He lowers his hands so that his fingertips rest just below his exposed eyes. He hopes the look he’s giving her is sufficiently doubtful. “I almost believe you.” Only then does he let his hands drop. Returning his attention to the board, Cullen stays quiet long enough to deduce Velthei’s next move, and moves one of his playing pieces to upset it, keeping his face carefully neutral as he does so. Velthei’s shoulders sag a little.

“In penance for nearly embarrassing me to death,” he begins, “you never did get around to telling me about what so captured you in the Emerald Graves.” His eyes flick up to hers, brown meeting startled blue. “Describe it. I would like to hear what caught your eye. Do you find the terms agreeable?”

Velthei straightens, brightening visibly. “I do, though the terms are hardly fair to you,” she says, brows turning in with chagrin. “How is it penance if I enjoy it?”

He grins. “I like your enthusiasm.”

A stray breeze blows through the courtyard, tousling Velthei’s hair as her hands wring in her lap, and he’s reminded of their first, fateful chess game. Her eyes settle on the sapling, finally beginning to stretch after recovering from transplant shock, and the smile that spreads across her face fills Cullen’s chest with warmth.

“I’m not sure how to start,” she confesses at length, looking sidelong at Cullen, brow creasing in faint concern as her cheeks tint pink. “I’m -- not as eloquent in person as I am on paper.”

Cullen rests his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers. “Try.”

She reaches back to untie the vine that keeps her hair swept back in a ponytail with a sigh, and turns it over in her hands, contemplative. Then her gaze turns inward, distant, that smile rising to her lips again, and Cullen’s lips curve in response. “Imagine, if you will, grass so green it looks painted on. Verdant, lush, like it’s never known drought, or the exhaustion of the soil’s ability to feed it. Wildflowers whose like I’ve never seen before dot the landscape.

“There are trees whose trunks thrust hundreds of meters into the air, wider around than the four of us could reach with all our hands linked together.” Her eyes flick up to his, focusing, and her smile turns into a mischievous grin. “We tried, after much cajoling from me.

“Everywhere, chalky stone outcroppings poke through the green like immense bones, and this is all threaded through by winding streams and rivers so ancient and shallow Varric’s knees were still dry after fording them.”

Cullen laughs. “I’m not sure he’d appreciate that description.”

“He certainly didn’t at the time.” She wraps the vine around her left wrist before forking her fingers through her hair, looking out over the garden with a smile playing at her lips. She’s still blushing, nothing more than a touch of color on the apples of her cheeks, but when she glances at him sidelong, there is little concern left in her gaze. “That was what I wanted to write.”

On impulse, he reaches across the board to hold one hand out to her. She looks at it, confusion writing itself across her features for a moment before her lips part in surprise, and she reaches to place her hand in his, beaming now as they lace their fingers together. His smile is soft. “I don’t know what you were worried about.”

—

“You sound remarkably like a drill sergeant,” Cullen growls as Josephine runs the men of the Inquisition’s inner circle through the steps of an elaborate Orlesian ballroom dance the umpteenth time today. She ignores him, standing on the dais of the great hall and clapping out a rhythm for the men to follow. She calls corrections when she spots someone — mostly Cullen — falling out of step. He makes no effort to wash the scowl from his face as he fumbles through the footwork, and he does his level best to ignore the grins from the women watching from the sidelines.

Once it’s determined that the men — mostly Cullen — are no longer beyond help, Josephine calls the women to join them. Velthei makes a beeline for Cullen, but is brought up short by Josephine’s stern “Ah-ah-ah!” of disapproval, and she looks over at the ambassador in surprise. Josie points at Dorian, and the Inquisitor sticks her tongue out at her before slouching her way over to her grinning dance partner, whose chest she gently butts her head against. Cullen makes no effort to wash the _furious_ scowl from his face.

Solas, chuckling, gets paired with (a very red and prickly) Cassandra. Blackwall with Sera, of course, because neither of them are going to take this seriously, and so on and so forth, going down the line until everyone in the inner circle is paired off.

Vivienne becomes Cullen’s dance partner. They bow — at least he’s got that right — and after a few minutes, he begins to understand why his partner is Vivienne and not Velthei. Vivienne compensates for his shortcomings, deftly disguising his missteps while pointing them out to him sotto voce, and she in no way distracts him.

“Formal dancing is not unlike the footwork of a soldier,” says Vivienne after he misses two steps in a row, “but the rhythm is far more predictable. Think of it that way, my dear.” Cullen’s eyebrows shoot up, somewhat poleaxed.

After that, it clicks. Or, at least, it stops clunking; by the time Josephine dismisses the group, he’s confusing left foot for right far less often, and his respect for Vivienne ticks a notch higher.

The group disperses, though Cullen lingers long enough to catch Velthei’s eye. She’s mid-stride when Josephine crooks a finger at her, and Velthei freezes in motion, eyes widening in alarm as one leg dangles in the air. “We need to go over some key phrases you'll need to know, Inquisitor,” says Josie, voice prim as she holds the door leading to her office open. “And your posture.”

With a harried groan, the Inquisitor trails behind the ambassador as she disappears into the hall.

  
—

Cullen’s disdain for Orlesian politics is not overshadowed by his fretting. Not tonight. Arms folded defensively across his chest, his eyes track Velthei as she weaves in and out of the crowd of noblesse.

He tries, anyway. The group of masked idiots that he seems to have collected like vultures swarming a carcass block his view, and he rapidly loses the slight elf woman in the crowd. He spends most of the night either fending off inappropriate questions, or being groped, and a dull ache begins to pulse behind his eye sockets.

She returns once, adjusting the sash of her uniform to hide a bloodstain as she whispers about the evidence she’s found implicating Gaspard, and her whisper turns into a snarl when Leliana suggests the death of Celene as a viable alternative. Her skin is too pale, her vallaslin stark against her eye and cheek, but they split off to perform their respective duties before he can ask if she’s injured.

The next time he sees her is when she reenters the ballroom some time later, uniform discarded in favor of her staff, coat and mail, and a scowl folds her brow as she stares across the dance floor towards Gaspard and Florianne. He almost runs to her, but remembers himself in time to slow his stride. She smiles when she sees him, but it’s devoid of humor, her eyes still sparking with fury before she turns without a word and makes for the polished tiles of the dance floor. His eyes widen.

The floor has been swept clear of lingering dancers for some minutes now in anticipation of Celene’s speech. The musicians trail off. Velthei’s stalk transforms into the flowing stride of a dancer, confidence and purpose radiating from every inch of her body as she breaks protocol, and stunned silence falls over the assembled crowd like a cloak.

Though he can’t see who she’s staring at among the trio of Orlesian conspirators standing on the landing below the balcony overlooking the ballroom, for a moment, he almost pities them.

“We owe the court one more show, _Your Grace_ ,” says the Inquisitor to Florianne, voice light, her smile glittering like the edge of a dagger.

—

The Winter Palace has an embarrassment of balconies overlooking its various gardens and courtyards and the mountains behind the castle. Cullen found Velthei’s thanks to Morrigan leaving with a catlike smile resting on her lips, and he’s a little worried to note all the fire he saw in Velthei before had gone out.

“There you are," he says, voice gentle. "Everyone’s been looking for you. Things have calmed down for the moment.” His brow furrows as he leans his elbows on the railing. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I needed some fresh air,” says Velthei, wiping at the corner of her eye. “Tonight has been… very long.”

“For all of us. I’m glad it’s over.” The breeze is a touch more agreeable here than it is at Skyhold, but it seems to hold no comfort for Velthei as she stares at her twisting hands. His hand goes to her shoulder as his heart goes out to her. “I know it’s foolish, but I was worried for you tonight.” That wins a smile, and her hand clasps over his, giving him a brief squeeze before returning to the railing.

The damn musicians begin playing again. He makes a disgusted noise, casting a look back to the ballroom — then, an idea striking him, he perks up a little. A smile playing at his lips, he catches Velthei’s eye. "I may never have another chance like this, so I must ask," he says, sweeping into what he hopes is a princely bow, "May I have this dance, my lady?”

She straightens. Brightens. A smile lights her face like the sun had come out, and she takes his proffered hand. “Of course! I thought you didn’t dance. Unless forced.”

Cullen chuckles, his other hand going to her waist as he pulls her close. “For you, I volunteer.”

He manages not to step on her toes as he leads her clumsily around to the music, relishing the first true smile out of her since arriving at the palace, and it’s all he can do not to kiss her.

—

When the carriage train makes its first stop for a change of horse on the Inquisition’s triumphant return trip to Skyhold, Josephine declares the need to check on the nobles that traveled with them, and excuses herself before hopping out of the carriage.

A few minutes later, Leliana receives a bird — Baron Plucky, to be precise, who caws and cocks one eye at Cullen from his perch atop Leliana’s shoulder — and makes it a point to school her expression into one of shock as she reads the scroll before she, too, excuses herself and exits.

Silence hangs in the air for a few moments before Velthei lets a breath out through her nose. She shakes her head fondly before turning to Cullen and jerking a thumb at the door. “You _know_ they planned this,” she says.

“And I am not a man to waste an opportunity,” Cullen quips, wrapping one arm around Velthei’s shoulders and tugging her to his chest. She shakes her head again, laughing soft and low as she snakes one arm around his torso. He glances behind him, gauging how much room they have, and, deciding it’s enough, lays himself down on the cushion, dragging her with him, though he does need to fold his legs a little to fit.

She arranges herself comfortably by swinging her legs over his lap, and he drops a kiss onto the crown of her head as she nestles into the crook of his neck with a sigh. “We’ve earned it, I think,” he murmurs into her hair, quietly thanking the Maker he’s too tired to be aroused by the position they’re in. “Get some rest.”

Velthei looks up at him before settling back down with a faint smile, rubbing a circle on his chest with her thumb. “You too, vhenan.”

His hand squeezes her shoulders, and though he doesn’t know the word's exact translation, the warmth in it serves well enough. “I think I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of my annoyance at Bioware for glossing over the death of the Inquisitor's entire family unit after I got them wiped out on the first war table mission that featured them. Also, Cullen being unable to talk to women who show an iota of interest in him makes me want to pinch his gaunt cheeks. He is a lot of fun to write for.
> 
> This uses canon as a guideline, and it is almost pure sugar. Put your dentist on speed dial.
> 
> Art by me.


End file.
